Astir
by liviafan1
Summary: Tumblr prompt: "Can't sleep? Me either. Let's can't sleep together." Quick, fluffy one shot. Complete.


**Pretty brief. Just a little something to ease the hole that "Headhunters" left me with.**

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Tumblr prompt:

Twistymaven (hey, that's ME! ) reblogged a quote: "You can't sleep? Me either. Let's can't sleep together." No angst, no secrets. : )-KC

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He wanted her next to him tonight, like she'd been for the last couple of months for the most part, but she decided to forego the comfort of his bed, of his body pressed up against hers, for her own peace of mind.

Yeah, not much of a trade off there.

Foregoing the arms of the man she's completely in love with to sleep in her own bed on principle?

Ha.

She's not even sure what point she's trying to make. They don't technically live together, but most of her stuff is there.

_He's_ there.

And isn't that more important than any semblance of peace she can possibly give herself?

She rolls out of bed on a sigh, wide awake despite the fact that the clock on the nightstand has just flicked to 3:07.

Yeah, she misses him.

She slips her boots on over her leggings and tugs a sweatshirt over her head—his sweatshirt, actually. It's grey and soft and smells like _Castle_.

She shuts the door softly behind her and lets the night swallow her until he can engulf her body whole.

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She realizes foolishly that it _might_ have been a good idea to accept his key a couple of weeks ago, for situations such as this one, but.

She hasn't been full of great ideas lately. But he makes her kind of crazy.

_Good_ crazy, but crazy nonetheless.

She shoots him a text, leaning her shoulder against the wall in the hallway. She'd knock if he was the only one home, but Alexis traveled home this weekend, in desperate need of a respite from crazed collegiate life.

Seconds have hardly passed before the door swings open.

_Oh._ And he's adorably rumpled, clad in wrinkled flannel bottoms and a grey tee shirt.

She yelps quietly as he yanks her into the loft, closing the door softly behind them.

He presses her against the wall gently, his hands sliding up to cup the sides of her face. He pulls her to him, caressing her mouth with his own. She sighs, wrapping her hands around the fingers that clutch her cheeks. She angles her head, moaning softly as his tongue brushes hers.

Mmm. She's never leaving again.

"Remind me again why I haven't asked you to move in with me?" he murmurs between kisses.

She chuckles throatily, tugging his bottom lip between her teeth gently. "You were giving me space?" she offers, pulling away from him reluctantly.

He lets out a breath. "Right." A beat. "You're not getting anymore of that."

She stifles a laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

He nods slowly before letting his head rest against hers. "Yeah." He presses a soft kiss to her lips.

"Hi," he breathes after a moment.

She huffs a laugh. "Hi."

He smiles at her humoring him. "Couldn't sleep?"

She shrugs, brushing it off. "Your bed's comfier," she teases.

"Of course it is. It's got the ruggedly handsome man sleeping in it."

She rolls her eyes. "Not quite what I meant."

He brushes his lips in the hollow of her eye, his breath caressing her skin. "Sure it is."

She hums noncommittally, tugging a hand through his hair. "This rumpled look is very sexy," she admits appreciatively.

He grins. "I wasn't even sleeping."

"You weren't?" she asks, surprised.

"I seem to be used to having a certain brown eyed detective hogging the covers and snoring all night."

He rolls his eyes (she really needs to stop teaching him these things) and takes her hand in his, leading them away from the door.

She slaps him lightly on the arm. "I do not snore."

He throws her a look. "I beg to differ."

She narrows her eyes. "If you weren't sleeping, then what—"

Her attention flicks to the muted television, flashing brightly with images of Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves locked in a convoluted love story.

She lets out a disbelieving laugh, clapping her hand over her mouth. She looks over to find him staring at her unblinkingly, almost offended.

"Don't give me that look. _The Lake House_? You've got to be kidding." Oh, God, she's almost sobbing with laughter.

She swears he lifts his head just a little higher in the air. "I most certainly am not kidding." A beat. "It's a great love story," he says seriously, a little miffed.

"A _great_ love story, Castle? There are so many holes in that plot I don't even know where to begin."

He shakes his head, covering his ears (_such_ a child) and starts off for his—_their_—bedroom again. She trails after him, spewing theory further.

"Actually, no. Let's start with the fact that he _dies_ in the middle, Castle. The whole timeline falls apart…"

Yeah.

This is where she belongs.

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**Thoughts?**

**Olivia**


End file.
